


a rose by any other name

by Quillium



Series: Dr. Wayne AU [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Damian Wayne-centric, Dr. Wayne AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: “You said,” he says, carefully, to Cassandra, “That you were Wayne, not Cain. Why was that important?”“Maybe not important to others,” Cassandra allows, with a tilt of her head, a furrow of her brow. Her face is a map that she purposefully leaves open, her body is full of tells that she wills herself to show. “But to me.”OR: Damian's adopted two dogs... now he needs to name them.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Damian Wayne
Series: Dr. Wayne AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715896
Comments: 16
Kudos: 198





	a rose by any other name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/gifts).



> You know the rules, kiddos! If you gotta sleep, you can't read. If you're sleep deprived, you can't read. If you're not hydrated, you gotta go drink water before reading. Take care of yourselves, and I hope you enjoy! As always, this series is made for and inspired by the perfect goldkirk--check out her Dr. Wayne AU if you enjoy mine!

“Here’s the plan,” Brown says, sliding into the seat across from Damian at breakfast, handing him a bowl of oatmeal and fruits. “I’m thinking after breakfast, we can take the bus downtown. There’s a drop-in dance class that I want to take, then after that we’ll treat ourselves with shaved ice, come back, and play with the dogs.”

“Shaved ice is unhealthy,” Damian glances down at his breakfast, “This is not enough to sustain me, Brown, you should know that.”

“I’ll fry some tofu and green beans for you after I finish my egg,” Brown sighs. “Honestly, for such a shrimp, you sure eat a lot.”

Damian puffs up, “I spend a lot of energy.”

“Good for you, staying active,” Brown ruffles his hair.

Damian doesn’t bother trying to duck away. He doesn’t know _why_ the Waynes continue to insist on this particular ritual but they always do it.

“Anyways, shaved ice. You liked it last time, though.”

“Its taste was not unpleasant.”

“Mm hm. Which, in Damian-speak, is that you liked how it tasted but you think that you shouldn’t admit that because the League raised you to think that taste didn’t matter and that you should just eat food for fuel and energy, not as something that can make you happy.”

“That’s not—“ _true_. Right? Or. They did, but, “That’s not _wrong_. Food is fuel for our bodies, nothing more, dallying and wasting time on fun and enjoyment is—“ the life he has chosen. It’s the life he has chosen.

It’s hard, choosing this. Sometimes Damian looks at himself and all he can think is _pathetic. Look at how far you have fallen_.

Some days, he looks at himself and thinks _no wonder mother is disappointed_.

Some days, he thinks _you were meant to be more. Why would you choose to stay among the commoners? The unimportant little people?_

He doesn’t know what to say. How can he, when he doesn’t even know how he feels? What he thinks?

His mother disapproved of him wanting to be vegetarian, too, but his father had simply inclined his head and said _we’ll make sure you’re still getting all your nutrients, of course, but it shouldn’t be a problem_ and just—accepted it.

Brown, somehow, seems to understand at least a little bit of his silence, because she reaches out and ruffles his hair again (he still doesn’t understand), and says, “It’s okay to not know how you feel. You have time to figure it out.”

Does he?

In the League, he was among the best. Raised to be the best. He was far ahead of his peers—he was trained by the greatest, he was going to exceed them—

Here, everything is different. It feels like he knows nothing.

How can he say that, though? In the League, admitting such things was weakness. With the Waynes—he doesn’t know.

There’s too much that Damian doesn’t know.

“Easy for you to say,” he snaps, and immediately regrets it. Anger shows weakness. Anger shows that you let it get to you. He may as well have put up a neon sign that said _I’m stupid and don’t know anything_.

That comment should have gotten him punished.

Instead, Brown offers him a wane smile and says, “It does feel like that sometimes, doesn’t it? Like everyone’s ahead of you, and you’re the only one struggling. It’s alright. Everyone else is struggling—it’s just harder to see on the outside.”

Damian’s ears burn. He has become so obvious, so transparent, that even a civilian like Brown can see through him.

“No shame in it,” Brown says, blithely, “You’re doing good, kiddo. Even if you can’t see it.”

“Don’t call me kiddo,” Damian manages.

Quiet laughter, “But you are one.”

“Don’t condescend me.”

“It’s not meant to be condescending,” Brown says, “It’s just a name.”

“Names have meanings.”

“It isn’t the name itself that’s important,” Brown pulls some tofu and the green beans out of the fridge, as well as the cutting board and the fruit knife. “It’s the intent behind it.”

Damian doesn’t understand these things. He doesn’t—names _are_. They mean what they mean. Intent? What intent? They’re just—labels that say what he is. He was the heir to the demon head. Fact. If he was weak, he was called a weakling, fact. He—

“I don’t understand,” he admits, knuckles white against his spoon. Remembering that failure is allowed is always a strange—pleasant?—surprise.

“A ten year old is a kid, just objectively,” Brown says, “So why does it offend you? Because it feels like we’re looking down on you, right?”

Damian likes to think he isn’t so prideful.

Damian’s immediate reaction is _that’s not true. I’m objective_.

Damian’s first thought is, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Brown laughs, “It’s alright. We don’t mean to look down on you—it’s just a name we call you. Like how I call Dick Sparklepants or how Babs always calls Jason a delinquent-wannabe. We don’t mean it poorly—it’s just a different way of expressing affection with people that you’re close to.”

“You feel affection for me?” Damian blurts out. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really, when the Waynes are as strange as they are but it is. “Why?”

“Why? Good question. You’re such a brat.”

“Affection weakens you.”

“Ugh, that’s not true,” Brown scrunches up her nose, “If anything, it strengthens you.”

“No, that—if you feel affection for someone, then you can be emotionally compromised when they are harmed, and it would be easier to take you down—“

“We don’t live in a world where we fight every day, kiddo,” Brown turns the stove heat to minimum and covers the pot with a lid. “Having people who you care about means that you have people you can depend on, or learn from, I guess. Strength is a difficult thing to define, when nobody lives with the same values.”

“The League values—“

“Similar things,” Brown hums, leaning against the counter, balancing on her heels, “But not the same things.”

Damian frowns at his breakfast. _Don’t be proud_ , he thinks. It is a lesson that he has to keep reminding himself of, day by day. In the League, pride was his birthright. Here, pride is childish. Small.

He is learning. It is difficult—the Waynes laugh at him but they don’t make him feel small. He feels defensive, but never frightened.

He has ceased wondering if it was right or wrong—he has become selfish, thought to himself _this is what I want_ and so seized the life with both hands, stubbornly refusing to look back.

“I will eat the shaved ice,” he says.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Brown laughs and kisses his forehead, “Alright, kiddo,” she leans back, smile full of affection, and Damian feels strangely free.

* * *

Two names. Damian needs two names.

“What am I to call you?” he asks the mother, “What am I to call your son?”

She doesn’t not answer, tail lazily flicking back and forth, having finished her food and content to watch her child slowly eat.

Damian knows that names hold power. He also knows that dallying does nobody any good—he must have _something_ to call the dogs soon, so they know that it is theirs. That it means them.

Damian has had many new names. Kiddo. Demon brat. Little one. He is easing into Robin as well—Drake humming _I don’t mind sharing, but I’m too lazy to come up with a new name and costume design_ so that name belongs to the both of them.

He has discarded many names as well. Heir to the Demon Head. Al Ghul. (His mother’s gentle, proud _habibi_ , though he knows that her affection was not the right kind—)

Names are hard. Because names are words, really, print on a page, calligraphy with ink made of charcoal, and Damian has never been one for words.

He painted the dogs, the other day. He took a photo and spent six hours, sitting, painting, only taking a break to eat dinner.

Painting was easy. Names are hard.

Damian bends over the mother. He presses his face into her back, breathes in the fur and does not suffocate. Some days, he thinks he is a statue—carved marble, beautiful, firm, ready to break if someone tips him over with the push of a pinky.

He is warm, and alive, though, and that makes things harder. Because that means he must think. Decide.

Names.

Maybe a nice name. A pretty one.

Or a firm name. One that gives strength.

A name from a story.

No, that will mix him up.

He pets the dogs, and discards the names in his head. They were all dust, anyways.

* * *

“I can teach you how to play the piano,” Todd says, frowning at the bandages on his arm, flexing his arm experimentally and wincing.

He accidentally smashed a mug into his arm, and the shards went from wrist to elbow. Damian doesn’t know _how_ that could happen accidentally, yet Todd managed it while washing the dishes last night. Grayson had passed out upon seeing the blood, which was peculiar for a police officer.

Damian, crouched on the ceiling rafters, holds his breath, silent. There’s no way that Todd is talking to _him_. He’s silent. Perfect.

“Yes, you,” Todd sighs, uses his uninjured right hand to idly play through a few scales, “You realize that I _do_ teach piano professionally. You can trust me with your education, oh high and mighty demon brat.”

Damian sighs, hooks the grappling hook he stole along the rafter a few times for safety and slides down slow.

“Decided to show yourself?”

“Don’t call me demon brat.”

“Hm,” Todd leans back.

Damian feels strange, like he wants to be angry and annoyed but is just quiet. Like he expected a full tap but didn’t even get a trickle.

Todd pats the seat next to him.

Damian sits down without thinking. “I mean it,” he says, frowning at the sheet music, “I’m not—I’m no longer heir to the demon head. So I’m no longer—that.”

“You’re still a brat,” Todd teases, and ruffles Damian’s hair, “This note is C.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“I’m trying,” Todd presses C. The note rings out clear, bright, “Press down with your thumb.”

Damian presses down. It comes out harsh, dissonant.

“Again. Less harsh, hold it a bit.”

Damian presses down. It comes out more clear, bright, like Todd’s.

“Should I call you Damian, then?”

The right answer is probably _yes_. That is his name, after all. Pennyworth and his father call him Damian.

Nobody called him Damian before. Except—

“No,” he mumbles, “Not you.”

“Not me?” Todd pretends to be offended. Damian thinks he would laugh, if he weren’t trying so hard to forget—

“Not you,” Damian agrees, pressing his head against Todd’s shoulder.

Before, this would have been weakness. Before, both Damian and Todd would have been punished for it. Before, Todd might have been killed, for making the heir weak, soft.

Now, it is nothing. Now, it is a small action—inconsequential.

Damian would like to live such a live. Quiet. Peaceful. Inconsequential. He wonders if he could do it.

“What do I call you, then?” Todd asks.

Damian is unsure. No name really fits him anymore—they all feel strange.

The old names are like small clothes that he’s outgrown, but the new names feel alien, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, “Call me whatever you wish.”

Something in Todd’s expression softens, and he pulls Damian into a quick side hug, “You’ll figure it out, kiddo.”

Damian’s pride says _don’t call me kiddo_ , but he doesn’t say the words out loud, because they are affection, he knows, and he does not want to deny affection.

Instead he presses _C_ again, and says, “Teach me more,” the _thank you_ stuck like honey in his throat.

* * *

The truth is here, that despite the fact that they have all these new names for him, all these new things to call him, that he has never been quite so fully attached to _Damian_ as he does now.

The truth is this: that they called him vessel, they called him heir, they called him names that he never truly understood the meaning of until he started to live with the Waynes—

The truth is this: that the Waynes treat him like a person, and the League never did.

And Damian has never placed too much significance in names, when he was raised in a world where action meant everything, but he thinks here, now, that perhaps they must mean _something_ , or at least the intent behind them, because he holds _Damian_ precious, cradles it to his chest, like a rare gem.

The truth is this: that he is, possibly for the first time in his life, nothing but human.

And the truth is this: Some days, Damian despises it. Hates how small he is, hates how weak he is, hates how far he’s fallen.

(The truth is this: that Damian wouldn’t trade this for the world. That this—this is good. This is right.)

* * *

“Why not Wayne?” he asks Grayson, head on Grayson’s shoulders, trying to memorize this warmth, this touch, trying to summon his dignity and a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his father asks _what dignity is lost in loving someone?_

“Hm?”

“Why—why are you Grayson, and not Wayne?”

“I think it would make it a bit confusing for you if we were all Wayne, kiddo, seeing as you seem pretty set on calling us all by our last names.”

“I don’t—why did _you_ choose this?”

Grayson hums, using his thief in his game, steals a permacrystal, “Because I had family. Before Bruce. I had a good family, too—good parents. A good life. And I love Bruce, he’s like a second father to me—but he can’t replace my first family. My first father. And my parents are gone but they shaped me and this is—this is my way of keeping them with me.”

Damian tries to wrap his head around it. He doesn’t understand, not really. What’s in a name?

He doesn’t understand. Part of him does but he can’t articulate it. Not quite yet.

So he—he doesn’t _fiddle_ , that’s for children, but he— _tinkers_ with the sleeve of Grayson’s shirt and tries to ask the questions that will guide him to his answer, the one he’s seeking.

“So your name is a—a connection. To your past.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But also it’s just—part of who I am. And I don’t see the need to change it.”

And with a sudden, childish sort of confusion, Damian asks, “Are we not your family?”

Grayson wraps his arm around Damian’s shoulders, squeezes, and says, “Of course you are, kiddo. But something as small as a name on paper—you don’t need that to know that I love you. I don’t need that to prove that I’m your family.”

Damian doesn’t understand. The name is meaningful—yet meaningless.

Back in the League, things were straightforward. Simpler. He didn’t need to think about this sort of thing—

He wasn’t _allowed_ to think about this sort of thing.

Of course he treasures his new freedom. How could he not? But being in this world—being _human_ for the first time—is difficult.

“Are you—are you wondering about whether you want to take Bruce’s last name or not?” Grayson asks, quietly, like he’s worried about offending Damian or scaring him off somehow.

“No,” Damian says, quickly, because he _wasn’t_ but now that Grayson _says_ it, he thinks—

Grayson smiles, softly, because he’s kind and doesn’t press, unlike Damian, who’s brash and straightforward and—

Ah.

“Maybe,” he mumbles, drawing his knees to his chest, his head ringing, because isn’t this—isn’t this a betrayal of sorts? To throw away who he was before, so completely, when his mother tried her best for him, when she loved him—at least in her own way—

He never thought of himself as “Damian al-Ghul.” He _was_ an al Ghul, he always had that, but he’s never—

He was always “heir to the demon head”. And he had never _realized_ , before, what exactly that meant, he thought it meant that _he_ was heir but it wasn’t that, not really and—

He took such pride in being an al-Ghul, but now he doesn’t know how to feel.

When he tells Grayson this, Grayson tilts his head to the side and says, “You don’t have to feel any way about it. You can just—be. Like Jason, he doesn’t really care if his last name is Todd or Wayne, it’s just a fact to him, that his name is Jason Todd, that he’s Jason Wayne—that’s why he doesn’t care when you call him Todd, even if he’s legally Wayne.”

Damian never knows how much weight to put into things. How to properly distribute his emotions or—or when they should even exist.

“There’s no right or wrong way to feel things,” Grayson tells him, ruffling his hair, “Your feelings are just how your brain reacts to things according to the data its collected through your previous experiences. Your emotions right now are different from mine because we’ve experienced different things. It’s okay. You’re doing a good job.”

Compliments were rare in the League. Damian was the heir, yes, but he was a failure in too many ways—he was made to be perfect, and he was constantly found lacking.

They’re common in the Wayne household. They’re given as though it costs nothing—to the Waynes, Damian supposes it really _does_ cost nothing.

These sorts of things, to him, are difficult to understand. But he is grateful, he thinks—he must be, because the swell of joy and pride in Grayson’s _you’re doing a good job_ is a feeling he never felt with the League, not even in his greatest successes.

The right words, the right thoughts, even any thought,, just coherent, can’t form properly, so Damian just says, quietly, “Thank you,” and hopes that expresses it, this warm, bright feeling that overwhelms him in ways he can’t understand.

“Yeah,” Grayson ruffles Damian’s hair, and Damian thinks, maybe, just maybe, he does understand.

* * *

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but Damian would really rather just have the words.

Two words.

That’s all he needs.

Two names. Two words

“You said,” he says, carefully, to Cassandra, “That you were Wayne, not Cain. Why was that important?”

Cassandra hums, a soft, fluttering thing that she does simply to revel in the noise, in her voice, in that freedom. Damian used to scoff at her for it, but with each passing day, he understands more and more.

“Maybe not important to others,” Cassandra allows, with a tilt of her head, a furrow of her brow. Her face is a map that she purposefully leaves open, her body is full of tells that she wills herself to show. “But to me.”

Damian stares at her. Tries to understand the hints she’s giving him—the openness of her posture, the way her neck is exposed so easily, how her hands are below her knees to make reaction time slower—

In the time Before, he would have thought it a threat. _No matter how disadvantaged I am, you cannot touch me_.

Part of him still thinks that’s what Cassandra is saying. Is telling him.

In the Now, he thinks, perhaps, it’s meant to be trust. A sign of trust, however false, however untrue it is—

It’s Cassandra’s attempt at honesty.

At showing how she feels in the way she knows best.

The least he could do is reciprocate.

Damian shuffles, sits next to her, leans his head on her shoulder. She pats his head instead of pushing him away. Damian relaxes.

In the Before, he would have been pushed away and mocked for such a display of weakness.

In the Now, it simply is.

“To you,” he says, echoing, trying it out, trying to figure out and understand and—

“To me,” Cassandra agrees, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. It might be, if only Damian understood it.

He’s grateful that he’s beside her. Some childish part of him thinks that perhaps, if she can’t see him, if he doesn’t speak, she won’t know how he feels, how lost and frustrated he is.

But Cassandra must understand, because she shifts a bit and says, “I’ll explain.”

She holds his hand.

It doesn’t feel like she’s mocking him or treating him as a child—it feels solid and comforting. Perhaps that’s something only a child would feel—Damian doesn’t know. More and more, he feels as though being a child isn’t such a bad thing, if it means protection and safety, if it means—

(In the Before, being a child was bad. It meant weakness, stupidity, it meant you were too pathetic to protect yourself, it meant you were a liability and—

In the Now, being a child means you are protected, cared for, loved. That if something hurts, you can give it to someone else—

Or maybe that’s how the Waynes treat all their family. Which Damian is now part of.

He has, perhaps, become more childish in his stay here.

The childish part of him thinks that’s not so bad.)

Cassandra leads him to the gym, sets him by the doorway, and walks alone to the mats. Her spine curls, her stance turns light, and her wrists go solid.

She goes through stances quickly, striking hard and fast, and Damian can practically see the fight—foot to head, target goes down, knee goes up, breaks jawbone, elbow down, skull cracks, target is dead—

And she freezes and straightens. Back tall, chin down, hands at her sides, neat, as though waiting inspection.

“Cain,” she says, and the gestures for him to join her.

She fights him, and it isn’t the deadly show of before, it’s almost—like playing. Teasing, lighthearted, as though she’s joking with him through the spar. It’s a comfortable thing that he enjoys though he quickly tires from the fight.

“Wayne,” she says, smiling, a bright, happy thing.

“Oh,” he says, and they both draw back, bow to each other, fist against palm.

“Words are easier, now.” Cassandra ruffles his hair. “Everything is easier now. Things that hurt are taken away, things that comfort are kept close by.”

“Cassandra Wayne,” he says, not quite knowing why, but when he sees her smile, bright and grateful, he thinks he understands.

“Yes,” she agrees, light as a feather, “I am Cassandra Wayne.”

She holds his hand and pulls him to the kitchen, where they eat ice cream and she shows him dance videos that she wants to learn from.

Does he want to be Damian Wayne?

Does he want to walk away from Damian al Ghul forever?

He thinks, dimly, that it must be important, yet somehow he still can’t quite grasp—

“Important to me,” Cassandra had said. “Maybe not to you.”

Is it important to him?

* * *

Damian toes into the kitchen at the perfect time to see Drake face-plant into his oatmeal.

Brown, instead of pulling him out and saving his life immediately, takes a few pictures before pulling Drake up by his hair and patting his back.

“Time to sleep,” she advises him.

“Hnngh,” Drake says.

“What would father say?” Damian asks, pulling Drake off the stool. “A lack of sleep only serves to make one inefficient and foolish. It is crucial that you rest well.”

“Is that affection I hear?” Brown teases him.

Damian feels his ears burn. He neither confirms nor denies.

“What are we naming the dogs?” Drake mumbles.

“Dogs?”

“The mom and the baby.”

“I have yet to decide.”

“Don’t make a big deal of it.”

“Names are important.”

“They don’t have to be. I’m Tim. Timothy. Timmers. Yeet. I got tons of names. None of them really matter.”

“You’re sleep deprived, Drake.”

“Aren’t I always.”

“Unfortunately. You must cease this behaviour at once, lest you cause father to worry too much about you.”

Brown gets a terrible smile on her face. “Which is your way of saying that _you_ worry about us because you love us, right?”

Damian sputters. “When did I—how dare you—“

“Love you, too, squirt,” Drake says with an unreasonable amount of glee.

Damian scowls, “I also feel some affection towards… you… specifically… as an individual…”

Brown and Drake burst into laughter.

Damian resists the urge to drop Drake’s head on the floor and storm away, because his father has been practicing emotional regulation with him recently and Damian is mature and grown up enough that he will show kindness in the face of mockery.

Or at least, stupidity.

Which Brown and Drake, it feels, show often.

“Dog names,” Drake repeats, “I can walk on my own, squirt.”

Damian drops Drake.

“Ow!”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Hn.”

Brown bursts into laughter and holds out a hand to pull Drake up. Drake shoots her a disgruntled look, but accepts the outstretched hand nonetheless.

“I think Marge would be a good name.” Drake hums. “For he mom.”

“Marge is boring,” Brown says, horrified, “At least pick something like. Sunflower.”

“Marge and Sunflower,” Damian repeats. “Okay.”

“Wait,” Drake scrambles up, “No way. Just like that?”

“They are inoffensive, and the names do not matter so much as my relationship with them.” Damian’s eyebrows draw together. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no, I just thought—I just thought you wouldn’t go with any random name. But that’s, um, right. Your reasoning is sound.”

Damian nods, head tilted forward, “Yes, it is.”

And he goes to tell the dogs their new names.

* * *

Damian is sitting at the foot of the steps, resting his eyes a little before midnight, because he has finally convinced his annoying siblings that he’s old and mature enough to have father wrangling duty.

Sunflower is curled up in his lap, fast asleep, and Marge has her tail wrapped around Damian’s ankle. So, of course, it is only reasonable that Damian is sitting here, at the bottom of the steps, unmoving, with his eyes closed.

Indeed, he’s only being _efficient_ , really—taking the time to rest, as his father often reminds him, is crucial.

 _Crucial_.

For high performance in all aspects of life. So Damian is being—efficient. And thoughtful. And he is resting, because resting is important and productive.

And if he is asleep when the door opens and his father walks in, well, that is because Damian is a _productive_ and _hardworking_ person and it is only logical to sleep as much as you can. He is being efficient.

Not _cute_. Shut up, Todd, and delete those photographs _immediately_ or so help him—

A cool hand on his cheek, the strange feeling as Marge unwraps her tail from his ankle and scampers off, nose poking Damian’s lap to get Sunflower to wake and leave with her—and Damian wakes as well.

“I’m sorry to interrupt what seems like a very good rest,” his father says, leaning down to press his forehead against Damian’s, “but it seems like the staircase might be an uncomfortable place to rest. We certainly wouldn’t want for you to wake up with some sort of ache from a preventable sleeping position.”

“Father,” Damian rubs his eyes, “Tonight I have the duty of making sure you rest well.”

“Well then,” his father sounds amused, “I suppose we can hardly allow you to fail your duty, now can we? Let’s go to your room, then.”

“No, _you_ must sleep in your room.”

“Then we’ll go to my room together.” His father’s hand, calloused and solid against Damian’s. “What do you say, how does sleeping in my room tonight sound?”

“Well,” Damian shifts, “I suppose, if duty demands—“

“I’ll respect your wishes either way,” his father says quickly.

Damian bristles, “ _If duty demands_ —I can spare a night. For your sake, of course, and your health’s sake.”

“Of course,” his father agrees amicably. “What a thoughtful son I have.”

Damian doesn’t _preen_ , because he is mature and above such childish things but he—he feels suitably proud. _A thoughtful son_. A wonderful thing.

“Hup we go,” and Damian’s arms are around his father’s neck as he’s lifted up. “Legs around my waist. There we go, good job. You want a bedtime story?”

“ _Father_ ,” Damian says, horrified, “You need to _sleep_.”

“Of course, of course,” his father laughs in that nervous, quick way he does whenever he’s lying about something. “I meant with an _audiobook_ , of course. We can listen to the audio drama of _Mo Dao Zu Shi_ —I know that Dick and Jason have been enjoying the tv show and book respectively.”

“If it’s listening to a recording while we both lie down and sleep,” Damian huffs, “I suppose it’s _okay_.”

“I’m glad it passes the test.” Quiet laughter, and Damian’s lowered onto the bed to sleep. “How was your day?”

“You can ask me in the morning.” Damian bites back a yawn. “For now, father, your duty is to rest, as you like to remind us so often. Hypocrisy does not suit you.”

The laughter is louder this time. “Ah, yes, yes. Thank you for correcting my behaviour, Damian. Let’s see—here it is. Episode one.”

The audio starts to play, the room dark as the phone’s light goes out, and his father lays beside him. His father kisses his forehead and then lies down to sleep.

In the morning, Damian will tell his father that he named the dogs. _Marge and Sunflower_. He wonders what his father will think of those names.

Ah well. It doesn’t matter. Names are nothing, in the end—it is the emotions and love one feels that really matter.

In the morning.

For now, Damian closes his eyes and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Names are really quite something, hm? It's a bit interesting--for example, my little sister pays attention more easily when we call her English name as opposed to her Mandarin nickname, but nobody ever calls her by her actual Mandarin name... I think it's quite exciting. If you didn't heed my instructions before reading, go to sleep now and drink loads of water. Love y'all, so you better love yourselves, too, yeah?


End file.
